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Kate should have known something was up the moment she walked into a quiet house.
Anthony Bridgerton was never quiet.
Not when he was alone.
Not when he was bored.
And certainly not when it was just him and Newton, whose primary purpose in life appeared to be amplifying Anthony’s every thought.
She set her bag down slowly.
“Anthony?”
“In the sitting room,” he called, far too calmly.
Strike one.
She found him on the sofa, cardigan still on from work, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly mussed as if he’d dragged a hand through it one too many times. A book rested loosely in his grip.
He looked…pleased.
Strike two.
Kate narrowed her eyes. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?” he asked mildly.
“Like a man who knows something he shouldn’t.”
Anthony smiled—slow, smug, devastating. “I was tidying.”
Her stomach dipped.
Anthony Bridgerton did not tidy unless guilt, boredom, or mischief were involved. And he did not look bored.
“You hate tidying.”
“I do,” he agreed. “But I adore surprises.”
He held something up between two fingers.
A piece of paper. Softened by wear. Crumpled, once upon a time, and smoothed again.
Kate froze.
Strike three.
“Oh no.”
Heat crept up her neck as the memory struck—him leaning over the lecture table, too close, too confident, daring her to set terms as if she would not be the one undone by them.
The memory of those rules came flooding back to her.
Rule 1. Maintain professionalism at all times
Rule 2. All lecture adjustments must be communicated 24 hours in advance
Rule 3. NO SURPRISES
Rule 4. No tampering with personal equipment.
Rule 5. Keep interactions strictly academic. Maintain appropriate physical and emotional distance.
She had written those rules in self-defense—back when they were two professors navigating co-teaching The Bridgerton Initiative and trying very hard not to cross any lines.
And broken them in her head almost immediately.
Anthony glanced down at her forgotten list fondly. “You were going to throw these away?”
“They are obsolete,” she said weakly. “We don’t need them anymore.”
“Mm.” He tapped the page. “I gathered that.”
Her eyes tracked the motion despite herself.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed the two rules she’d scribbled beneath the Rule 6 Anthony had insisted on.
“Rule Seven,” he said lightly. “Do not spend excessive time thinking about knitwear,” he read aloud. Then, delighted: “Rule 8: See Rule Seven.”
Kate groaned, remembering the exact cardigan-removal incident that had prompted the private amendment to their agreement.
It did not help that Anthony was currently wearing a very similar sweater.
Before she could protest further, Anthony set the book aside and extended his hand. His fingers brushed hers in silent invitation, a gentle pull that drew her forward until she found herself settling into his lap as though she had always meant to be there.
“You were not meant to read that.”
“You wrote my name six times,” he replied. “I felt invited.”
“That was not an invitation.”
Anthony leaned back, cardigan pulling just enough across his shoulders to make her regret every decision she’d ever made.
He looked up at her, eyes bright with triumph. “You were struggling.”
Kate pressed her lips together. “I wasn’t the only one.”
“That was never up for debate,” Anthony grinned.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I am,” he said honestly. “Immensely.”
She made a half-hearted attempt to snatch the page from his hand, but he drew it back with careful ease, more playful than evasive.
“You could have pretended you never saw them,” she muttered.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I think back to how undone I was by you from the very beginning, and it’s rather nice to know you were exercising the same restraint.”
Kate stilled.
There was no smugness in his voice now. No victory.
Only something almost…awed.
“You were undone?” she asked softly. “Even then?”
Anthony’s thumb traced idle circles at her waist.
“Especially then,” he admitted. “You were infuriating. Brilliant. Impossible. And every time you pretended not to look at me, I thought I might lose my mind.”
She huffed. “You were insufferable.”
“I was desperate,” he corrected gently.
Kate swallowed.
“That restraint is no longer required.”
Anthony smiled again—softer this time, something warm beneath the smugness.
“Something I remain grateful for,” he said, voice low, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “Every single day.”
The breath she drew felt unsteady.
Her fingers slid up his chest before she could stop herself, catching lightly in the knit at his shoulder. Not tugging. Not yet. Just…testing.
“Careful,” she murmured. “You’re very close to becoming a violation.”
Anthony huffed a quiet laugh, forehead brushing hers. “I believe I already am.”
Her grip tightened, teasing, deliberate.
The paper slipped from his fingers, forgotten, fluttering to the floor as Anthony shifted slightly beneath her.
Kate leaned in, lips grazing his jaw. “There are a few rules worth breaking.”
Anthony’s hands splayed across her back, not urgent or demanding. Just steady and certain.
“As long as we agree on one,” he murmured.
Kate leaned back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Oh?”
“That you are never again required to pretend you do not want me.”
Her laugh was soft, breathless, but entirely sincere.
“Deal,” she said, and closed the distance between them.
The list lay abandoned on the floor beside the sofa.
Rules written in ink.
Everything else was written in the space between them.